


Maybe, for World Peace

by fakinbrilliance



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slash, Snuggle Puddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakinbrilliance/pseuds/fakinbrilliance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia is clever, Stiles has very secret feels, and both Derek and Stiles discover the hazards of discount furniture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe, for World Peace

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to Kimmie for the beta job! :D All mistakes are mine. The characters belong to their creators and MTV.

_“What?”_ Allison asks. Her incredulous laugh makes Stiles’ whole head wobble since he’s currently using her stomach as a pillow.

“It’s a simple question,” Lydia insists turning her head on Stiles’ thigh so she can peer at Allison.

From his own vantage point, Stiles can see straight up her nostrils. Even Stiles, who has known since the third grade that Lydia Martin is a goddess, has to admit that it’s not her best angle.

“There’s no way…” Allison sputters. “I mean, Scott. He’s the only guy I – ”

“No,” Lydia cuts her off. “I said we were in an alternate dimension.” She waves vaguely in Allison’s direction. “No Scott.” She puts her hand to her own chest. “No Jackson.” She gestures at Danny, the fourth side of their snuggle-square. “No Tim.” Finally, her gaze settles on Stiles. “Hmm. No internet porn sites.”

“Hey!” Stiles says, jiggling his thigh once in retribution. “Play nice.”

“You know it’s true,” Lydia replies, one eyebrow arched. 

She’s seen his internet history. Thanks to Danny, the _whole pack_ has seen Stiles’ internet history. Stiles had tried to play it off as research, but no one was fooled, so, really, he doesn’t have a leg to stand on.

“So, in this alternate dimension where we are all sadly without our significant others,” Lydia proceeds, “We each have to decide. Derek. Boyd. Isaac. Chuck, fuck or marry.”

“Wait,” Stiles blinks. “We _each_ have to decide? I thought this was a question for Allison.”

“It’s a question for everyone,” Lydia declares with a determined glint in her eyes that Stiles knows all too well. “Decide.”

“What? No. This should only be a question for the girls. Right, Danny?” Stiles looks desperately over to where the other boy lays, head propped up against Lydia’s hip. A kind of horrified realization dawns when he sees the speculative gleam in Danny’s eyes. “Wait. This is totally unfair. The three of you actually _like_ men.”

“I like _Scott_ ,” Allison says, and ok, yeah, no one in their right mind is ever going to call Scott a man. He will forever and ever be a bumbling puppy. But still.

“You all like _males,_ at least,” Stiles gripes. “This is completely ridiculous. Why am I even here?” 

He knows why, in theory. It’s Bipedal Bonding Night – a weekly thing he and Allison set up months ago so that all the non-wolfy members of the pack would have some time away from irrational instincts, pointy teeth and puppy dander. They each take turns hosting – it’s Lydia’s turn tonight – and spend the time watching movies, eating junk food and complaining about school. It’s great; a little slice of normalcy, like therapy without the bills. Sometimes Stiles thinks it’s the only reason he’s still sane. Other times, like right now, he thinks it may drive him right over the edge.

“Because you love us,” Lydia says with certainty. “And you’re playing. Who’ll it be?”

“God,” Stiles groans. This is the worst idea ever, because Lydia is smart. She knows things. She knows almost _everything,_ and if Stiles actually _thinks_ about what she’s asking, she will see straight through the careful wall of repression and denial he’s built up over the past year and a half.

In a quiet, deserted corner of his mind, Stiles is almost willing to acknowledge, very grudgingly, that he maybe, just maybe, has had _thoughts._ Thanks to his utter lack of brain to mouth filter, Stiles’ thoughts usually become public knowledge as soon as they cross his mind. But these thoughts…well, teenage hormones _suck,_ ok? And his dick clearly has the IQ of a particularly dense turnip. Anyway, they’re not the kind he wants to share. Ever. With _anyone._

And even if he did want to share them, there are too many layers of incomprehensible pack dynamics, human politics and ordinary social awkwardness in the way, so really, it’s just safer if he keeps them to himself. Stiles has always been pretty good at compartmentalizing. At this point he’s packed away any errant brainwaves so deeply in the basement cupboards of his mind that they’re as good as gone. Or they would be, if not for Lydia and her completely ridiculous question which has just thrown that basement cupboard door wide open. If Stiles isn’t careful, the most incriminating bits of his misguided imagination are going to fall right out in front of everyone like junk spilling from an overstuffed closet. 

Stiles lifts his head far enough to eye Lydia’s window critically. Her bedroom’s only two stories up. He could probably survive the fall, and even if he couldn’t make a clean get away, at least everyone would be distracted by the blood and the pain and the oozing. Then Stiles could go to the hospital and never think about this ridiculous question _ever again._

“Stiles?” Lydia prompts. Unfortunately, she’s turned to look at him which means he’s no longer staring up her nose. Instead, he’s hit by the full force of those rich, brown eyes, framed by expectantly arched eyebrows.

Shit.

Stiles could have resisted her nostrils. Really. He could have. He’s a strong enough man for that. Maybe. But he has absolutely no defense against her steady, sandalwood gaze. He feels a tiny part of his willpower shrivel up and die as he sighs. “ _Fine._ But I’m going last.” Maybe the apocalypse will strike before he has to answer.

“No problem,” Lydia chirps. “Allison?”

Allison’s brows have crumpled into an anguished line. She’s looking at Lydia like Lydia’s asking her to kick kittens or something.

Danny pokes Lydia’s calf. “Maybe you should start?” he suggests, coming to Allison’s rescue. He is probably the most heroic pack member of them all.

“Fine,” Lydia says, propping herself up on one arm. She is evil and vile and conniving, and Stiles tries not to miss the warmth of her cheek on his thigh. Lydia purses her lips, pondering for a moment. “Chuck Isaac, fuck Derek, marry Boyd.”

“What?” Danny sounds absolutely appalled. “Chuck Isaac? Have you seen that mouth?”

“Alright then,” Lydia says, resettling her head on Stiles’ leg. “What’s yours?”

“Chuck Boyd, fuck Derek, marry Isaac,” Danny says without hesitation.

“Hmm. Isaac? Really?” Lydia asks. “Then again, I suppose it’s possible you and Stiles know something I don’t since you all share a locker room.”

“No,” Stiles says, outraged. “Locker rooms are sacred places of comfort and bro-bonding. There is no ogling in locker rooms.”

Danny shakes his head. “Don’t lie. There is totally ogling in locker rooms. All the time. You straight guys do it even more than I do.” 

“What?” Stiles can feel a flush creeping up over his cheeks.

Danny rolls his eyes. “Greenburg checks out _everyone._ And I’ve seen you checking out Isaac’s ass at least three times.”

Lydia’s ceiling is fascinating, Stiles decides. All those little bumps. He should count them. _All of them._ That way, he won’t have to meet anyone’s eyes.

“Wait,” Allison says, sounding hopeful. “Could marriage, in this context, mean a platonic life together?”

“No,” Danny and Lydia say in unison. They share a quick grin, and, _wow,_ they make a kind of terrifying team. Stiles is really glad they’re on his side in this whole supernatural mess. That combination of dimples and IQ is probably lethal.

“Marriage means all the sex,” Lydia says.

“All the time,” Danny agrees with a wicked smile. 

Stiles swallows hard.

Allison looks pained.

“Who’ll it be?” Lydia prompts. “And yes,” She says preemptively when Allison opens her mouth to speak, “we already know Scott is your one and only. No need for more disclaimers.”

Allison’s lower lip pokes out in something that looks suspiciously like a pout, but after a good ten seconds of sulky silence, she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and says in a rush “Chuck Derek, fuck Boyd, marry Isaac.”

“Fuck Boyd? Really?” Lydia looks intrigued. “I thought he still wasn’t over the whole pin-cushion-in-the-forest deal. Angry sex is always fun though, I suppose.”

Allison shakes her head. “No, Boyd, Erica and I are cool now. We went and saw the avengers together. We agreed that I’m Hawkeye, Erica’s the Black Widow and Boyd’s the hulk.”

“Aren’t Hawkeye and Black Widow dating?” Stiles asks. “Because I’m sure Scott wouldn’t complain if – ”

“Shut up,” Allison smacks him the top of his head. “It was a bonding experience.” Then she adds, as though she can’t help herself, “I really wouldn’t sleep with any of them, though, because Scott is the only one I actually want.” 

“No take backs,” Lydia insists. 

“That just leaves Stiles,” Danny announces. Stiles had been so wrong when he’d called Danny heroic, because clearly, Danny is _pure evil._

“Why isn’t Erica one of the options?” Stiles asks to buy some time in case the apocalypse is running just a little late. Erica would probably rip out his spleen if he ever tried anything, but at least everyone would expect him to pick her, and that would save him from any awkward lying or accidental admissions of very secret feels.

“It’s Chuck, Fuck or Marry, Stiles. There is no fourth option.” Allison says, sounding completely self-righteous now that she’s already succumbed to the test. 

Stiles blinks at the three pairs of avid eyes watching him and shivers. They’re like the Borg. Allison has been assimilated, and now they’re coming for him. He eyes the window again. Surely the blood and pain and hospital trip would be better than this. 

But no. Stiles knows how it will go down if he tries to flee. He’ll get tackled and dog-piled and ruthlessly tickled until he gives in and finally answers the question. It’s happened before. He thinks about lying. It shouldn’t matter here, without the usual compliment of werewolf lie detectors lurking around. No one would know. Except for Lydia, who always knows _everything._ God.

Lydia pokes him in the hip. “No backing out.”

“Fine.” Stiles heaves a resigned sigh, closes his eyes and spits out the truth. “Chuck Boyd, fuck Isaac, marry Derek.” 

There. At least now it’s over, and they can move on to complaining about physics, because seriously, if Mr. Harris had been bad, Ms. Smelding is ten thousand times worse.

“Marry Derek?” Danny asks, “Why would you marry Derek? 

“Hey,” Stiles protests. “No one else had to justify their matrimonial choices.”

“True, but no one else decided to marry the one option that would lead to living in a creepy burned out mansion,” Danny points out.

“I wouldn’t live there,” Stiles says, groping for reasons that will sound plausible and not reveal that really, with those abs around to distract him, he probably wouldn’t even notice all the char and decay. “I’d force him to buy me a nice place – which he could totally afford. You’ve seen his car. And he’d hate it because civilization is clearly not his thing. He’d never spend the night. He’d just run around the forest all the time and I’d be left in peace.”

“So basically you’re marrying him for his money,” Allison states, clearly disapproving, as though this is a test of ethics instead of some stupid game Lydia came up with to torment them all. 

“Yes,” Stiles says firmly, and completely untruthfully. 

There’s an awful pause and Stiles is sure that everyone has seen right through his flimsy lie before Lydia laughs and says, “Now that’s an idea I can get behind.”

Danny just shakes his head. “You two are terrible. Hey, speaking of terrible, what the hell is up with Ms. Smelding?” 

And suddenly everyone is talking at once, arguing about whether Ms. Smelding had set the class trebuchet to fire tiny plastic cows directly at Scott’s forehead accidentally or on purpose. Stiles heaves an internal sigh of relief, shoves all unwanted thoughts back into his mental basement cupboard and decides that maybe Danny really is a hero after all.

In the end they all agree that, horrible troll though she may be, Ms. Smelding at least gets props for the Monty Python reference and (though Allison protests) a couple bonus points for the momentary cow-shaped bruise on Scott’s forehead.

☆★☆

“You were lying,” Derek says from the darkest corner of Stiles’ bedroom.

Stiles is halfway through his door and already shrugging out of his t-shirt and hoodie when Derek’s words blindside him. He flails in surprise, stuck half in and half out of his clothing, and only manages to avoid pitching backwards and cracking his head open on his desk because Derek darts forward and fists a hand in his shirt. Stiles dangles there, still on the brink of toppling backwards, gaping at Derek through a gap in the constricting tangle of fabric. 

_“Holy God,”_ he manages, when his heart finally dislodges from his throat. His arms are trapped at odd angles, elbows framing his head, and Stiles is suddenly, horribly aware of the pale, exposed skin of his midriff. “What the hell are you doing here?” He blusters, trying to hide his embarrassment. At least his dad’s at the station tonight and won’t be coming up to investigate, although after seventeen years, Stiles thinks he’s gotten pretty used to the odd bangs and screeches coming from Stiles’ room.

“You were lying before,” Derek repeats.

Stiles rolls his eyes, which are about the only part of him that can move at all, trussed up as he is. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that, dude. I’m pretty fluent in Derek-speak by this point, but even I’m not a mind reader.” He gets distracted by that for a second, thoughts veering off on a completely different path. “Hey, do clairvoyants actually exist? I mean mythical creatures are real, like werewolves and kanima and the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal – ”

“You mean the tsuchigumo,” Derek corrects, all authoritative like he didn’t just learn how to pronounce that word last week.

“Yeah, whatever man. I mean it though. Do they exist? Mind readers? That’d be kind of awesome.” He glances up, catching an eyeful of Derek’s scowl through the small window of his shirt collar and quickly changes his mind. “I mean awful. Really awful. There are some thoughts that are not meant to be shared. Ever.” And the effect Derek’s scowly face has on Stiles’ libido is definitely one of them.

“Stiles,” Derek growls, and Stiles flinches back as far as his cotton prison will allow. He’s pretty sure he didn’t say that last thought out loud, but what if mind readers really _do_ exist and Derek is one of them? 

Stiles frantically attempts to think of anything other than the chiseled cheekbones and stubbled jaw in front of him. Pickles! Cheetos! David Attendborough documentaries on humpback whales! He makes it halfway through the Pledge of Allegiance in Spanish before he realizes he’s being a bit ridiculous. If Derek could read Stiles’ thoughts, he would have killed Stiles a long time ago. 

Still, werewolves might as well be telepathic, with their innate polygraph abilities and their stupidly sensitive, emotion-sniffing noses. God. Derek is probably getting ready to gut Stiles and have his spleen for a late night snack. And Stiles might even deserve it, because if there’s anything dumber than developing a massively ill-advised crush on a murderous, red-eyed mutant, it’s probably letting that murderous red-eyed mutant find out about it. Clearly, his hormones are trying to get him killed.

Darwin Awards, here Stiles comes.

When he chances a look back up, though, Derek is glaring and looming, but his general aura of ‘I will slaughter you where you stand’ doesn’t seem any more intense than usual. Still, it’s not a terribly calming experience, being loomed at by a disgruntled werewolf whilst trapped in an improvised straight jacket. It’s doubly uncomfortable for Stiles, who is still trying very hard to deny the fact that he may rather like the whole looming thing. Stupid, _stupid_ hormones. 

Belatedly, he tries to wriggle back into his shirt, but for some unfathomable reason, Derek is still clutching the front of it with his werewolfy super strength. 

“Hey,” Stiles prompts, “Any possibility you’re going to let me go?”

Derek blinks and visibly reassesses their current positions. Then, because he apparently enjoys being an utter jackass, he smirks, says “You’re completely ridiculous,” and pulls the constraining cloth up and off Stiles in one smooth movement.

And ok, maybe when he’d started the whole maneuver, shirtlessness was exactly what Stiles had been going for, but a lot has happened in the last three minutes, and Stiles is pretty sure that, whatever comes next, he’s going to want to face it with all of his clothes _on._

It’s too late now, though. Derek has already lobbed both the hoodie and the shirt into the laundry bin in Stiles’ closet with annoying werewolf accuracy. All Stiles can do is stand there, pale and shirtless, and stare at his hamper in dismay. 

Damn it.

He crosses his arms over his chest and glares at Derek. “Why are you even here?”

“You were lying,” Derek repeats. Then, after Stiles rolls his eyes again, clarifies, “When you said you’d marry me for my money.”

Stiles feels his stomach drop. He gapes at Derek, and manages a strangled, “Of course I was lying! I’d never marry you. For _any reason.”_

“Lie,” Derek pronounces, sounding oddly satisfied. 

Stiles swallows. “Well, ok, I guess there might be some reasons, like if it would, I don’t know, bring about world peace, or prevent a nuclear winter or save Scott’s life or something,” Stiles rambles. 

“World peace?” Derek asks, one eyebrow raised. Stiles knows that what Derek actually means is: ‘You think marrying me would bring about world peace? How does your brain even function enough to keep you alive, you imbecile,’ but words are not Derek’s strong suit. Fortunately, Stiles has enough words for any ten people, so he can usually fill in the gaps.

“Stop giving me that eyebrow. I’m just saying that if there is some bizarre alternate reality where the status of the earth is dictated by arbitrary things and our marriage is a deciding factor, then maybe, for world peace…” Stiles cuts off and shoots a suspicious glare at Derek. “No. Wait. How did you even hear that? You creepy creeper! You were sneaking around outside Lydia’s place tonight, weren’t you?” he accuses.

Derek shrugs. “Yes. We’re there every Wednesday night.”

 _“What?”_ Stiles yelps. “ _Every_ Wednesday night?” Here he thought the humans were getting a break from their wolfy pack-mates. Instead, their wolfy pack-mates have been running circles around their houses like some huge, supernatural sheepdogs. “Why? Why would you do that?”

“It should be obvious,” Derek says, brows furrowed.

Stiles waits for him to explain, because obviously, no, it _isn’t._ After an uncomfortable stretch of silence, he throws up his hands in defeat. “Maybe it’s obvious to people with fur for brains, but I don’t have your wolfy were-instincts. You’ll have to explain it to me. You know, using _words._ Like a _grown up.”_

Derek’s lip twitches like he’s fighting off a laugh. But no, this is _Derek,_ so it’s way more likely he’s trying not to snarl. Either way, he only sighs out a long breath and says “We were patrolling.”

“Patrolling? Patrolling _what?_ ”

“Patrolling around Lydia’s.” Derek glowers like he thinks Stiles is playing dumb on purpose or something. “You’re pack. You’re vulnerable. We can’t leave you exposed like that.”

Stiles bristles. “What, you think you have to guard us? You think we’re _weak?_ Ok, maybe we don’t have the superhuman strength thing going on, but have you seen Allison with her crossbow? And Danny’s a black belt. He can take care of himself. And I’m pretty sure Lydia could tie someone in knots without even touching them. Jesus, Derek.”

Derek raises one eyebrow. “I didn’t say weak. I said vulnerable.”

“There’s a difference?” Stiles demands. He’s not exactly sure why he’s so angry about this, but anger is by far the least complicated emotion currently twisting his gut, so he latches onto it like a life raft.

Derek sighs, clearly unhappy about having to use actual words instead of snarls and eyebrow sign language. “When you’re all together like that, you let your guard down. That’s fine. You need to. You should be able to. But we can’t leave you unguarded while you’re not guarding yourselves. And with you all in one place like that, you’re a target for anyone who wants to hurt the pack. We’re just being careful. Sensible.” 

“Sensible?” Stiles scoffs, “I have never once seen you wolves act sensibly when you’re thinking with your fuzzy brains. And who is this ‘we.’ Is it the whole pack out there?”

“No,” Derek denies and Stiles snorts. “It’s not everyone. Just Scott and Jackson. They don’t want to leave Allison and Lydia unprotected.” 

“And you,” Stiles says. He means it to be an accusation, but his voice comes out softer than he’d intended.

“And me,” Derek agrees.

“Because you’re the alpha,” Stiles hazards, “And it’s your responsibility to keep the whole pack safe.”

“That’s part of it,” Derek concedes, eyes locked on Stiles’ with an intensity Stiles has never seen before. 

_And what’s the other part?_ Stiles wants to ask, but the words freeze on his tongue, sharp and jagged, like tiny pieces of razor edged ice. There’s something in Derek’s eyes that make him think that maybe, just maybe he wants Stiles to ask, that maybe the answer will be one Stiles wants to hear, but he crushes that tiny seed of hope before it can put down a single root. 

He can’t ask. There’s too much expectation lurking in that question; too much possibility of rejection. Normally that wouldn’t bother him. Stiles is the _king_ of dealing with rejection, after all. Every time someone slaps him down, he always bounces back. The first ten years of his relationship with Lydia are proof enough of that. 

But there’s more at stake here than wounded pride and a denied date. 

Derek is the _alpha._ And Stiles may be pack, but he’s not a werewolf. Derek doesn’t need him like he needs his betas. Stiles has researched the crap out of this; He’s asked Deaton, the Argents, Google, and every communicative mythical being they’ve come in contact with, so he knows human pack members don’t make alphas any stronger or faster with their presence. They don’t help with the healing process, and they don’t add any extra acuity to an alpha’s already heightened senses. 

Stiles tries to be useful. He does research, and he pulls strings with the police. He runs himself ragged trying to keep everyone alive and out of serious trouble, but he knows deep down that ‘pack’ is a label that only sticks to him as long as Derek lets it. 

Derek doesn’t hate him anymore. At least, Stiles doesn’t think so. But all the available growly, glary evidence indicates that he doesn’t like him much, either. Derek…tolerates Stiles. At times, _barely_ tolerates him. And Stiles is always just a little worried that he’s one mistake away from being cast out on his tailless behind.

Stiles doesn’t really want to admit it, because Jackson is a tool, and Isaac is a holy terror, and really the whole lot of them are just a ragtag bunch of misfits, but Stiles has absolutely no idea what he’d do if he ever lost any of them, let alone all of them at once. 

Which is exactly why any insane, hormone driven thoughts Stiles may have had about Derek – may be having even now, _goddamn it_ – will forever stay locked up in the deepest darkest recesses of his mind.

“Cut it out,” Derek says, barging into Stiles’ internal monologue.

“ _Rude,_ ” Stiles replies, a knee-jerk reaction, then he actually processes Derek’s words and blinks up at him. “Cut what out?”

“You’re angsting.” Derek frowns. “I can smell it from over here.” 

Stiles gapes for a second. “Are you _sniffing_ me?” he demands, trying to rekindle the anger from few minutes before. Anger is so simple. Stiles wants it back, wants the red-hot burn of it to sear away the swirling confusion of other emotions currently tangling up his mind. 

“I didn’t think…” Derek starts, voice so low, it’s nearly a growl. “But then you lied. And you smell…you smell so…” He trails off, eyes oddly unfocused, and Stiles gives a short, hollow sort of laugh.

“I smell?” His voice sounds a little hysterical, so he swallows and tries again. “I smell. Ok. Sorry. I didn’t realize I was offending anyone.” 

Derek’s eyes refocus on Stiles, and, oh great, he really is growling now. Growling and _glaring,_ and apparently Stiles has become some sort of disgusting stink bomb while he wasn’t looking. What the hell.

“Would an extra shower help?” he asks. “I can just…” He gestures vaguely at the doorway and moves towards it, trying to edge around Derek’s bulk without meeting his eyes.

Suddenly Derek is just _there,_ invading Stiles’ space, crowding him back until his ass hits the edge of his computer desk. He flails and nearly topples over for the second time that night, but Derek is somehow _everywhere,_ his solid, steady arms wrapping all the way around Stiles before he can get any real momentum going. It’s a good thing, too. Stiles really can’t afford a new monitor right now. 

Then Derek’s burying his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck, and any stray thoughts about damaged technology flee before the onslaught of stubble on bare skin. 

_What._

Stiles freezes, eyes wide and darting around the room. He’s not sure what, exactly, he’s expecting to see. Maybe a Candid Camera crew pouring out of his closet or Scott jumping in through his door shouting “April Fools!” but the only thing in his closet is his hamper and Scott is nowhere in sight. Plus, it’s mid-November. 

Maybe Lydia spiked the punch again. 

If this is a hallucination, though, it’s a terrifyingly clear one. Stiles can feel _everything,_ from the pulse of his own heart, hummingbird fast in his chest, to the rough scrape of denim against the sensitive skin of thighs. His body is lit up, shocks of heat skating over his skin wherever Derek’s touching him. He feels like he’s on fire.

Derek is breathing on him, a hot rush of damp air that tickles Stiles’ skin. Or maybe he’s breathing him _in?_ He’s definitely taking his time to inhale, anyway, nose rooted to the base of Stiles’ neck like it’s some sort of catnip. Werenip. _Something._ It’s…

Strange.

Yes. Strange. Weird. Unsettling. Any combination of the three.

Chiseled faces and stubble and ridiculous muscles don’t often invade Stiles space without the accompanying threat of imminent violence. And Derek…well, he seems kind of the polar opposite of violent right now. 

Stiles shrugs under Derek’s weight and feels the alpha settle even further down against him, filling in the spaces between them like he’s more liquid than man. It’s almost as though…Almost like…like Derek might actually be feeling what Stiles wants him to be feeling. His mind stumbles over the possibility, because, well, Stiles knows exactly how to deal with rejection, but he’s never really had the opportunity to test himself against anything else.

“Uh, Derek?” He asks when his brain finally rediscovers words. His voice may be an octave higher than usual, but really, the only person around to judge him for it is currently _nuzzling his neck._ If anyone gets to be judgy here, Stiles thinks it might just be him. 

Derek does nothing but take another long, deep breath that he lets out in a ticklish gust across Stiles’ nape. 

Stiles has to fight to clear his mind. He tries to focus on the precarious way he and Derek are balanced, and the strong likelihood that his Ikea desk set is not constructed to hold the combined weight of seven textbooks, a computer monitor, a teenage boy and an over-muscled werewolf. It helps that he can actually feel the flimsy chipwood sagging under his ass.

“Derek, what’re you…” Stiles starts. His desk gives a worrying groan. “Uh, I think we should probably move.” 

When there’s still no reaction, Stiles tries to slip sideways out from under Derek’s weight. 

Derek’s arms _tighten._

“Dude,” Stiles tries again, managing to maneuver around enough in Derek’s iron grasp that he can poke at one insanely well-defined bicep. He only gets a low rumble in response. “Don’t get me wrong. This is totally, ridiculously, _mind numbingly_ awesome, but I think I’m about to get an ass full of splinters, so could we maybe…”

“No extra showers,” Derek says. At least, that’s what Stiles thinks he says. The words are a bit muffled, mumbled as they are into the bare skin of Stiles’ shoulder. And Stiles is still _shirtless,_ which means only the thin layer of Derek’s t-shirt separates their chests. Derek radiates heat like a goddamned furnace, and there’s no way he hasn’t noticed the steadily growing bulge in Stiles’ pants considering how they’re pressed together. Stiles has absolutely no idea what to do about any of it. 

He swallows hard. “I…Is it safe to assume that I don’t smell _bad?”_

Derek huffs a laugh and finally raises his head far enough to meet Stiles’ eyes. His pupils are blown, hazel irises barely visible around bottomless pools of ebony. 

“You smell… _Jesus,_ Stiles, you smell like sweat. Soap. Grass. Chai. Sex. _You._ You’ve always smelled _amazing._ But I never…” He trails off, clearly flummoxed, as usual, by the basic challenges of the English language. Stiles is reeling a bit from what he’s already said, though, so Derek actually has a chance to organize his thoughts and continue without Stiles’ usual babbling attempt to fill any awkward silence. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s been not to touch you? You’re…god. You’re fucking _addictive.”_

Derek leans in, again, mouthing Stiles’ neck, clearly more comfortable with action than words. 

“You _like_ me,” Stiles accuses, trying to wrap his mind around the concept. He leans his head back, unconsciously baring his throat, and shudders as Derek’s growl of satisfaction vibrates straight down his spine. 

“Yes,” Derek agrees, following the word with a sharp nip that makes Stiles’ breath catch. He can’t stop the moan that escapes when Derek sooths the bruised skin with his tongue. 

And then Derek’s kissing him, biting gently at Stiles’ lower lip as his stubble scrapes across Stiles’ chin. Stiles’ brain short circuits completely. It isn’t until his fingers catch in Derek’s hair that he realizes he’s wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck. It’s convenient though. It means he can pull Derek closer, press their bodies tighter together, lean back and – 

The movement is apparently more than his overburdened desk can handle. It gives one final, grinding shriek and shudders as the cheap plywood gives way with a spectacularly horrendous crunch. Everything plummets towards the floor. 

There is a disorienting moment where the world twists and Stiles is suddenly falling _up,_ then gravity regains control and Stiles lands face first on the ground.

“Uhhg,” he groans. The ground is really hard, and a face full of it never feels particularly good. Stiles has nosedived often enough in lacrosse practice that he’s familiar with the sensation. Gangly limbs are unfairly easy to trip up. This particular patch of ground is a lot warmer than usual, though, and surprisingly free of wooden debris. Stiles pushes himself up on his elbows to examine the floor and finds himself eyeing Derek’s pecs instead.

“Oh my god,” he says with dawning horror. “I think I just bruised my face on your abs.” He pokes experimentally at Derek’s stomach. “Jesus Christ. No wonder you weigh a ton. You’re like a rock.” He glances around and takes in the carnage. “A giant rock that just crushed half of my room.” 

Derek snorts and rolls his eyes. “I saved your ass,” he points out. “No splinters.”

“You also decimated my desk, killed my keyboard and maimed my monitor,” Stiles says, eyeing the mangled cords that are sticking out from under Derek’s massive shoulders like the forlorn limbs of a misshapen octopus. At least his computer still appears to be in one piece. “What is your legendary were-speed good for if it can’t even save a _desk?_ ”

Derek…Derek actually _flushes._ He looks away, not meeting Stiles’ eyes. “I was a bit…distracted.” 

Stiles can’t help the maniacal giggle that inspires. He, Stiles Stilinski of the pale skin and awkward flails actually managed to “distract” Derek Hale. And, god, he loves that he can put dirty mental quotation marks around that word. His life rocks. 

“That,” he sputters, once he’s gotten the giggles back under control. “is awesome.” He catches sight of the mangled cords again and his smile falters, just a bit. “Expensive, but still _awesome._ ”

Derek huffs. “Stop complaining. I’ll buy you a new desk. And a new keyboard. And a new monitor.”

“You really like me, don’t you?” Stiles asks, not even bothering to hide his grin. 

“Unfortunately,” Derek replies. Despite the variety of sharp wooden and plastic bits that must be jabbing him in the spine, he is very nearly smiling. “You know, I can’t actually offer you world peace, right?”

“It was a pipe dream anyways.” Stiles says with a shrug. He’s a bit distracted himself at the moment. Derek’s insane muscles may be hard as rocks, but he’s still warm and smells like pine and soil and cool night breezes and it feels ridiculously good to be sprawled all over him. 

“I can look for an apartment some day, though,” Derek says casually. And that’s definitely a smile. God. Stiles will _never_ get tired of this.

It takes a few seconds for Stiles’ mind to catch up. “An apartment?”

“Yeah,” Derek answers, finally maneuvering Stiles enough so that he can sit up. “Not now, obviously. When you’re ready to move away from home. You said you didn’t want to live in a creepy, burned out mansion.” 

Stiles blinks. “Seriously? You would get me an apartment?” 

“No.” Derek shakes his head as he resettles Stiles more securely in his lap. 

“But you just said – ”

“I would get _us_ an apartment,” Derek corrects against Stiles’ skin, nosing his way down his neck. “I’m not as averse to civilization as you seem to think.”

“Oh.” Stiles says, distracted by the stubble skating across his collarbone. Then, as Derek’s meaning sinks in, “ _Oh._ ” 

“Just tell me when I should start looking through the classifieds.”

“I…” Stiles flounders, thrown off by the absolute certainty in Derek’s voice. It sounds like this is what he wants. Forever. Not that Stiles doesn’t feel the same way, it’s just…well, it’s a lot to take in. Still, there’s one thing Stiles knows for sure. Derek doesn’t belong in some chic, ultra modern apartment. He belongs in the woods, with pine needles crunching under his feet and the sky crosshatched with branches above him. 

“I like your place,” Stiles says finally. At Derek’s raised eyebrow, he hastily amends, “I mean, it could use a little work.” Derek’s other eyebrow climbs. Really, those brows deserve Olympic medals considering all the acrobatics they do. “Ok, a lot of work. But it’s got character. And it’s your home. We could maybe fix it up? You know, like get some support beams put in. And maybe a couch and some electricity? And running water.”

“So demanding,” Derek says, and Oh. My. God. Stiles doesn’t have a twitter account, but he suddenly understands the appeal. Informing the world at large that “DEREK JUST MADE A FUNNY!!!” is suddenly at the top of his priority list.

“You sure world peace is off the table?” Stiles asks, “Because, now that I know you’ve got a sense of humor, I wouldn’t put anything past you. Also, seriously, those abs could probably stop _missiles_.”

“Are you suggesting pimping me out for world peace?” Derek asks, deadpan. He stands up, easily lifting Stiles, and heads towards Stiles’ bed.

“Um,” Stiles stalls as his brain tries to come to terms with that. He squeaks a little as Derek gently sets him down, “Yes? Except, that would mean I’d have to share. Which is clearly unacceptable.” He scoots over to make room on his tiny twin mattress for Derek, too. Derek’s shoulders are massive, though, so it only makes sense to use one as a pillow. “Maybe we can just share pictures of you? Pamphlets. Anti-war campaign ads. I could probably share your image without jealousy driving me to maim anyone,” he declares magnanimously. “World peace is a worthy cause, after all.”

Derek looks at Stiles with something alarmingly like fondness in his eyes. He heaves a put-upon little sigh, lips kicking up in a lopsided grin. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

 

Epilogue:

It’s just after daybreak when Derek gives Stiles one last kiss and hops out of the window. Stiles can hear the thrum of the squad car turning into the driveway, announcing his father’s arrival. He pulls out his cell phone, snaps a picture of the remains of his desk and texts it to Lydia with the caption: _:This is all your fault:_

His phone vibrates before he even has the chance to set it down.

_:My master plan worked, then?:_

_:God, i knew you were behind this you conniving busybody:_ Stiles texts back. He tries to make his expression stern in case Lydia can somehow see him through the touch screen but his facial muscles won’t cooperate. A ridiculous, dopey smile has attached itself to his face like a limpet.

 _:You’re welcome:_ Lydia replies. Then, _:You should thank Allison and Danny, too:_

Stiles sighs. He should have known it was a conspiracy. _:I am going to kill you all:_

_:You love us and you know it. See you in calc:_

Stiles’ smile slips for the first time all morning. He glances at the clock and groans. Thirty minutes before his alarm is set to go off. 

_:omg classes. I am DOOMED:_

_:I’ll bring the coffee,:_ Lydia texts back. _:You bring the juicy stories:_

_:You are a terrible, terrible person:_

_:I love you, too. Btw, have you warned Isaac yet?:_

Stiles blinks down at his phone, and taps out a confused reply. _:About what?:_

_:The game last night. Your answer. Remember?:_

Of course he remembers the stupid game. That’s what started this whole mess to begin with. This whole glorious, hot, frantic, shirtless mess. 

His phone vibrates after a minute, as Lydia grows tired of waiting for a response. _:Stop daydreaming and focus, Stiles:_

Stiles shakes his head to clear it and thinks back. What had he answered? Marry Derek, obviously. But the rest? Chuck Boyd. Fuck Isaac…

 _:Crap:_ He types in with feeling.

_:Indeed. You know Derek doesn’t share well with others:_

_:It was just a stupid game:_ Stiles types out, but he reaches up and brushes his fingers across the sore spot on his neck where Derek had nipped him last night. Where Derek had _marked_ him. Jesus. He squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment before quickly typing out, _:Oh god, you’re right. I’ll text Isaac:_

_:Good boy. See you in class:_

Stiles sticks his tongue out at his phone, sure Lydia can sense it even if she can’t see him. Then he sighs, opens a text to Isaac, and starts composing an awkward message of explanation. Clearly he’s not going to get any sleep at all.


End file.
